Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters, races, and creatures, as well as our beloved Middle-earth, belongs to JRR Tolkien.
Elrohir and Jeren made good time, arriving at the stronghold a little before noon. Jeren gave Aragorn the message that Anardil had sent with her. He took it from her without reading it. In fact he barely gave her any notice at all. His eyes were on Elrohir—his brother looked as if he'd seen too many battles. He had black eyes, which were turned a very subtle purple by now, the bruises almost gone. But not far enough gone to escape Aragorn's exacting scrutiny.
"There's been trouble?" Aragorn asked.
"Much of it, brother," Elrohir said. "I will tell you over a plate of food, if we could." Aragorn and Elrohir led the way into the dining hall, where there were many other rangers in the process of filling plates and cups. The three of them took their turn at the table heaped with meat and bread and then made their way to an empty space at one of the long tables that occupied the room. There was a great deal of noise with so many men in such a confined area, but Elrohir commenced informing Aragorn of the events of the past few weeks.
Elrohir told him of how they'd sent out scouting patrols for several days prior, and how one of the groups had been successful in finding a pack of Orcs about twenty strong. And of how they'd confronted the Orc band as they emerged from the cave at the end of the day before yesterday. He glanced at Jeren before continuing. He very much wanted to make up some story as to how they became engaged in battle with a band of Orcs that, in reality, was more than three times the rangers' strength, but decided that honesty would be the best example for her, so he told Aragorn the truth of it. One of the men had shot his bow prematurely and they had then been committed to battling over forty Orcs—hand to hand, sword to sword, with too few archers—instead of just backing away from the battle, as they should have.
"Forty! So many," Aragorn said. "'Tis been long since we have seen such numbers of the beasts amassed. And as I recall, you and Elladan set out with only ten men." Aragorn frowned. "Who was it Elrohir, that shot without orders? He must be disciplined."
"It was young Galer. I'm afraid he's already been disciplined in the worst way, Estel. He's dead—as are all the others, save Anardil, Rhyse, Elladan and me."
Aragorn pushed his plate away and rested his elbows on the table. He blew out a breath and closed his eyes, placing his lips against his steepled hands as if in prayer. As he opened them again, his hands fell to the table. His expression was stormy. "The Dúnedain are too few as it is. We can ill afford to lose any men, much less eight at one time."
"You are not telling me anything I do not know, Estel," Elrohir said, his tone regretful.
Jeren waited for Elrohir to tell of her part in the battle, but he never did. She was sorely disappointed, but what could she say without sounding self-important? And when Elrohir did not continue, did not tell of his capture by Orcs and Jeren's rescue of him, she grew more and more angry. He'd promised to speak to Aragorn in her behalf—what was he waiting for?
Not able to abide it any longer, rather than make another scene before the men of the Dúnedain, she got up from the table and took her plate to the place where the diners could leave their dirty dishes. She then left the hall.
Jeren prepared for her departure. Her plans were the same as before Elrohir joined her. She was going to Rivendell. She found Two in the stable, and murmuring her regrets for not allowing the poor animal more rest, gave the mare a measure of oats to satisfy her until she could graze again. Jeren placed a blanket on Two's back, then reached for the saddle. Jeren felt a twinge in her arm and it frightened her. She'd almost forgotten that Orc cut. She prayed that it would not go bad on her, as her father's had gone bad on him.
While Two finished her oats, Jeren refilled her waterskin and repacked her saddlebags, replenishing what she could from the stronghold's stores. She had come across a ranger that she knew from when she and Anardil had ridden together when she was younger, after her mother had died. He had helped her find the things she asked for.
Elrohir found her just as she was leading Two from the stable. "Why did you not wait for me, Jeren?" he asked her.
She didn't want to speak to him, she was so angry with him. Angry? No, hurt is what she was. When she walked past him and didn't speak, he grabbed her arm. She yanked it away.
"Leave me alone, Elrohir!" she said in a quiet, but firm voice. "Please. Just leave me alone." She immediately felt sorry. The look of confusion on his face told her he had no notion what had made her so irate with him.
Instead of explaining herself to him, she merely said, "I must get to Rivendell—to see about my father. I'm very worried about him."
"Just give me a few minutes, Jeren, to check your arm, and then I will go with you. I need to see to that wound of yours. I cannot let you go without at least making sure that the cut has not turned serious."
Although she knew he was right, Jeren wanted to be away from him. "I don't have a few minutes. I'm hale enough, Elrohir. Be sure and have Lord Aragorn look after your injury, though."
"It is foolhardy to ignore this, Jeren. I would hate to see you lose your arm, when it could have been prevented by simple upkeep in a timely manner." He could tell he'd reached her better sense then, so he took Two's reins from her hand, tied them to a post, and led her back inside the hall.
They went to Aragorn's alcove, where his desk and chairs were. Jeren sat and Elrohir motioned for her to take off her tunic. She blanched. Here? In the open for all to see?
He bent toward her so that only she could hear what he said. "If you would ever become a ranger, do you believe you will have your own separate dressing quarters? Toughen up, girl; at least bare your arm." She complied, keeping herself covered the best that she could.
He'd prepared what he needed before he even went to find Jeren. In fact, Aragorn had tended to the injury on Elrohir's leg before Elrohir had even sought Jeren out.
He took care of her wound with quiet efficiency, telling her it was no worse than before. She was bandaged again in a matter of minutes. She pulled her tunic up over her arm and stood while she tied the ties that closed it.
"May I go now?" she asked, just the slightest hint of sarcasm in her voice.
"Yes, you may go and I will go with you. Thank you for your indulgence, Miss." His sarcasm was much more pronounced than hers had been. She hid her smile from him. This was truly Elrohir at his finest.
As they crossed the yard toward the stable, Aragorn came from within, leading Elrohir's saddled horse.
"Thank you, Estel," Elrohir said as he took the reins. Jeren got up on Two's back and they cantered out of the settlement.
Imladris was several hours' ride from the stronghold. It was now a couple of hours past noon, so if it were Elrohir alone, he could ride hard and would make it home just before dark. However, Two could not stand up to the pace that Elrohir's horse would set. Elrohir knew they would have to camp for the night. Jeren would balk, but there was no other way. He refused to be about after nightfall. He was tired and sore still, and had battled hard just that morning. And even though he made light of his capture to Jeren, his night with the beasts had disheartened him greatly. He in no way wanted to tempt the fates—being taken by Orcs again was plainly not in his plans.
When it was dusk, and the shadows long, Elrohir called a halt.
"But Elrohir, we're so close! My father could already be there. Please, let's continue. We're almost to the Imladris crossing. Once we make it across the Bruinen, we'll be safe on Elven land."
"No, Jeren. I feel uneasy. And you said yourself you listen to Elves when traveling in the wild."
She sighed, but gave in.
They found a small cave—a true cave, not just a place sheltered by rock—and Elrohir pronounced it home for the night. It did not smell of Orcs, so he knew they did not frequent it. They would be safe enough, especially if he did not sleep.
They didn't make a fire—they chewed on more of Jeren's dried meat—and they laid down their bedrolls and stretched out upon them.
What Elrohir had told Jeren had been true—he felt a vague uneasiness. He knew not from whence it came. He did not sense Orcs, or anything else particularly, but it stayed with him, nagging at him.
The truth finally dawned on him—he was sensing Elladan, and something his brother feared. So he put his head to work, as he lay there, calling out with his mind to his twin's.
And then suddenly Elrohir knew.
Elladan had left his mind unguarded, so Elrohir could know his thoughts. Elrohir learned that Elladan had been successful getting Anardil to Rivendell. His brother had started out before dawn and he'd carried Anardil before him on his own horse. They had ridden as hard as was possible, riding double, with the man being a dead weighted burden. He'd left Rhyse to get back to the stronghold with Joem and Brid.
And now Elladan truly feared for Anardil's life. Anardil was dying. Even after having their father's help. Elrohir was sure of it.
He wanted to wake Jeren up and start for home, despite what he'd told her before. He knew not how much time they had, if he was to get Jeren to Rivendell before her father succumbed to his wound. He worried over the dilemma for quite awhile, but knew the wisdom of staying right where they were. He would keep attuned to his brother, and he would know if—or when—the worst had happened.
When it was still well before dawn, Elrohir could stand it no longer. The feeling of foreboding had grown in intensity, and that could mean only one thing—Anardil was worse. After he woke her, Elrohir told Jeren nothing other than they must make haste. He gave her the impression it was to outrun whatever might be in the darkness, but he knew the truth—she did not.
They passed the gates of Imladris just as the dawn was breaking. Elrohir jumped from his horse almost before it had stopped, and he grabbed Jeren's reins in an effort to speed her along. When she was on the ground, he took hold of her hand and they ran into the house, down the long corridors, until they came to the healing halls. They burst through the doors and Elrohir followed the muted voices until he found Anardil's bed.
The man was pale beneath the tan of his skin, and he lay there still as death itself. Jeren ran to his bedside, and once there, checked for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. And she saw that he did still breathe. She let out a sigh, thinking she'd been afraid for nothing. But she looked up at the grim faces of those gathered there—Elrond, Elladan, Glorfindel—even Erestor—and she knew that she still had much to fear.
"Why are you all here? Why do you look this way?" Jeren aimed her questions at Elrond. "My father is going to be fine—is he not?"
Elrond looked away at first, not wanting to tell the girl that her father could not live through what ailed him. But he knew her too well; knew that she would want the truth. "No, Jeren, he will not be fine," was all that Elrond said.
Anardil stirred then and opened his eyes. Jeren clutched his hand—which was cool to the touch. He smiled at her. "Jeren—," he started, then coughed. He waved away the water glass Elladan held out to him. "Jeren," Anardil started again, "you're a sight for sore eyes."
She smiled at the way he ever greeted her, even though her tears had started. "I'm here, Papa," she said quietly. The others walked a short distance away, giving the pair a measure of privacy.
"There's much I would tell you, daughter," he rasped, "but I'm not big on words, you know." It broke Jeren's heart when she heard his once strong voice now so weak and quavering.
"I know, Papa," she replied. "There's much I would tell you, too, but I only seem to make you angry these days, so perhaps I should just be silent." Her voice quavered, too, she noted, though from tears, not from illness.
"'Twas not anger at you, Jeren, but fear for you that made me say such terrible things. I am truly sorry for that." After a short pause, he added, "I love you, daughter. And I'm very proud of the woman you have become. You know that, do you not?"
Jeren felt regret that now that he would no longer be with her, she would at last know a small portion of his heart. It meant the world to her, hearing him say those words. "I know, Papa."
"I hope to see your sweet mother soon. The room grows dim, but there's a light that shines for me."
Jeren's silent tears kept falling. Anardil closed his eyes and did not speak again. She knelt by his bed, holding his hand in both of hers. They stayed that way for almost an hour. Finally, he took two more deep breaths—and then he was still.
Jeren laid her face against his cool arm and sobbed. Elrond went to her, put his hands on her shoulders and drew her up and into his arms, where he let her cry for a few minutes. He then gently turned her and guided her out of the healing halls, down several long corridors and up a flight of stairs, to the room that had been her own for the past seven years.
He turned down the bed, intending to put her in it, but she hesitated. "No, Lord Elrond. I'm much too dirty to lie in the clean linen. Let me bathe first."
"Are you sure, dear one?" he asked her in his most soothing voice. "The linen is changeable, whenever you would wish it to be changed. There's no need to trouble yourself about it."
"I will be better able to rest if I'm clean," she told him.
"Need I send Naith to help you?"
"No, that isn't necessary."
"If you are sure, Jeren. I will be within hearing should you need me for any little thing. Just call for me. I'll be here shortly."
She walked into his arms again, feeling like it was the shelter she'd always needed that her own father could not give to her, for whatever his reasons. She finally stepped back, fresh tears on her face. "Thank you, Lord Elrond. I love you."
He smiled at her, gave her a little wink. "I love you, too, dear one." He placed his fingers beneath her chin, bringing her face up so that he could look into her eyes. "Call for me if you have need of me." He then turned and left her.
As she prepared to bathe, Jeren thought about Elrond. In many ways, he had been more father to her than Anardil had ever been. He'd counseled her long on problems she would bring to him. She knew she could speak of anything to him, and not be judged or scorned. Why could not her own father have nurtured her in this way?
As she disrobed, she thought about her father. Anardil was a man, who had lived a hard, lean life—all his life. He was brave and loyal, although she seldom felt that loyalty when it came to her. He had loved her mother fiercely, of that Jeren had no doubt. He was absent for most of Jeren's life, except for a brief—yet to Jeren, wonderful—time when she had traveled with him.
So to expect him to be brimming with advice about things that concerned her, when he knew not what they were, nor was that his way, was unjust. Comparing Anardil to Elrond was completely unfair. They were both noble, brave beings, but they were as different as night is to day. Her father had loved her and was proud of her—he'd said so with his dying breaths.
She would truly try to believe what he said…
As Jeren went into her bathing chamber, she heaved a deep sigh. As many times as they had had cross words, she loved her father deeply. But the hurt that he'd dealt her had cut her intensely, sometimes to unforgivable depths. Even though she was still trying to convince herself of her father's love for her, for now his dying words made his death a little more bearable.
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More than an hour later, Jeren emerged from her bathing chamber dressed in a plain white nightshift that she favored. She went out on the balcony, combing her long, wet hair, and sat at the table that was centered on the veranda. It was a late spring morning, so the temperature was pleasant, if a little bit cool.
The Elves were singing today, probably in the Hall of Fire. They sang a lament that she knew marked the passing of her father. She'd heard these songs before, though rarely in her seven years in Rivendell, and never for the natural death of an Elf. Usually it was a warrior who died in battle—either Elven or Dúnedain. Or perhaps a messenger sent out on an errand that had run afoul of Orcs or had met with other catastrophes on his route. But today the Elves in Rivendell sang for her father, and it made her even more profoundly sad.
She wished them to stop! She did not want to spend her day with tears as her constant companion. She knew she should be abed—she'd dressed for it. But while she felt a million years old, she was restless. She felt like finding Two and riding until she could not ride any longer.
She sat for a few moments more, then she stood abruptly. She could not sit here and listen to these Elven dirges for another second. She went back into her room and dressed for the day. She hoped to sneak down the stairs, so no one would be the wiser. She not only wanted to ride—she wanted to ride alone.
But as she neared the top step of the staircase, she knew it was not to be. Who had she been fooling? She lived with Elves, after all. Elrond must have heard her stirring, because the door to his room opened and out he came. She cursed her bad luck, but at least it was not Elrohir! She'd had enough of him following her around for awhile. And even though he'd gotten her home to see her father before his death, she was still angered and hurt by what she felt was his betrayal—Elrohir's not telling Aragorn of her rescue of him. He'd promised to speak to Aragorn, but he'd not even thought to tell him of her help to the rangers in the battle they'd fought.
Elrond was not dressed in his usual robes. He had on the casual garb the twins always favored—plain tunic and leggings with soft leather boots.
"Ah, Jeren," he said with ease, "I'd hoped I might go riding with you."
Not for the first time since she'd become acquainted with Elves did she wonder just how he could know. How did the Elves do this—seemingly read her mind? She'd asked Lord Elrond before, when just this type of 'coincidence' would occur, how the Elves did this, if they could not discern people's thoughts. He confessed one day that Elves, having such long lives, grew bored at times and they—well, he anyway—often made a game of listening to sounds to try and discover what people were doing when they were not in his sight. Yes, he felt somewhat guilty for the eavesdropping, but it was all in good fun, at least for him. It was, in his estimation, just an effect of their millennia of being alive. Over time the sounds and events that followed them took on a pattern—that was how it was done. Elves did not read minds. She still had cause to wonder if he was being completely honest with her about this.
"I would be honored, Lord Elrond." She sounded resigned, even to herself.
"Please bear with me—I'll only take a little of your day," he said. At her beginnings of protest that she would be glad to ride with him, he held up a hand. "I have need to speak with you about something and I do not wish to wait for another time. Shall we go?"
They started down the stairs and at the bottom he touched her arm. "I almost forgot—Elrohir told me about your cut with the Orc blade. I mean to check that before we leave." He led her back to the healing halls. She hesitated outside the doors, not wanting to go back into the place that now held a heartbreaking memory. But she straightened her spine, forced her tears away and entered.
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"Lord Elrond, please do not make me stay! You must let me ride."
Jeren sat in the healing halls, while Elrond fussed over her. When he'd first touched her bare arm, he'd grown alarmed. He could tell she was fevered. Not a good sign. He'd shaken his head and advised her to rest instead of ride.
Then when the bandage had been removed, Jeren could see on his face that the news was not what she'd hoped for.
"Is it bad?" she asked with growing unease. She remembered Elrohir's comment about losing her arm and it turned her cold.
"Well, it is not good," he told her smoothly. "I see no signs that the poison is working still, but the infection is severe. Is this arm not throbbing, dear one?"
"Mayhap a bit, but it's nothing I cannot endure."
He rolled his eyes at her. "Enduring is not what concerns me. Resting will speed your recovery. You know this is true."
She decided to tell him the truth of it. "I have to leave. I cannot abide the singing any longer."
"Then I will tell them to stop. 'Tis a simple matter."
"But I don't want them to stop!" she said, her eyes beginning to tear. "I want them to continue. They honor my father—he deserves the tribute. I just cannot bear listening right now, that is all. Perhaps later, it won't affect me so badly."
In the end, Elrond relented, but would only allow her to ride if he accompanied her for the entire time, and for as long as he saw fit. Jeren agreed, and they left, first stopping by the kitchens to grab a light meal to take with them.
She felt so free on Two's back at a gallop. Jeren felt as if she could ride this way for hours. But she did not want to overburden her mare; the horse had shown nothing but heart on this last trip that they'd shared, and Two deserved more rest than Jeren had allowed her. So before Jeren was truly ready, she slowed to a walk. Elrond pointed to where he thought they might stop and have rest and repast—near a beautiful pond, surrounded on one side by a stand of cedars.
They frightened a pair of swans when they rode up, the great white birds first paddling across the water, then taking flight. Jeren was at peace like she hadn't been in several days, perhaps weeks. The two of them were silent for quite a while; Elrond knew of Jeren's need for quiet and solitude, and hoped not to disturb that too much with his presence. He waited for her to start any conversation they might have. In the meantime he set out the small meal they would share.
"Think you I could have done something differently?" she finally asked him. At Elrond's puzzled look, she continued, "I mean with my father—when he was cut by the Orc blade. I did as he and Elladan told me to, but if I'd done something else, perhaps he might have lived?"
"No, young one," Elrond said. "That wound was fatal the minute it was struck. Its location and depth—even had one of the twins tended to him, they could not have saved him. Neither you nor they knew of the poison. It must be a new one—or perhaps ancient—that I have put into the recesses of my mind. But it is black at its heart, as Orcs are. I will work long finding its source and its cure."
Jeren considered this in silence. Since Elrond obviously knew about the battle, she wondered just how much Elrohir and Elladan had told him. Knowing them—and Elrond—she doubted they'd told him the entire story. Also, he'd not asked how she'd come to be wounded, and she'd not given him the information.
"What about me, my lord? Will my arm heal? I know not what good I would be without two arms."
He chuckled at her, not meaning any harm. "I do believe you will heal—and be a two-armed woman. It was very good that my sons realized that what ailed Anardil was not simply infection, but a toxic agent—and I should let them know how much I approve of their skill—mind you, I said should.
"Having that knowledge allowed Elrohir to treat you correctly immediately after your injury. Otherwise, I am afraid not only would you have been a one-armed woman, you would have ultimately died of your wound." He looked into her eyes, so she would believe exactly what he said next. "Worry about it no more. It looks to be simple infection—unpleasant to be sure—but highly curable."
He looked at her sternly for a moment then, as a parent might frown at a wayward child. "I will never be at ease with you battling Orcs."
"I have battled against them in the company of the Imladris force—and many Elven teachers. And Glorfindel pronounced me ready. –But I wish not to talk about Orcs right now, if you do not mind." She breathed a sigh of relief. She had evaded the issue at present.
They ate in silence for a while. Cheese, fresh-baked bread with butter, along with a little ham. Apples for later.
After they'd eaten their fill, they sat together quietly for some time. Jeren decided to broach a subject on her mind of late, concerning her and her father, but it was something she had never discussed with Elrond. She was somewhat embarrassed to ask the Elf lord about this. What child wanted to admit that not only did their own father possibly not love them, but might not have liked them either? She remembered her anger and hurt at her father's cruel words the last time she saw him—before he was brought to Rivendell. Now that her father was gone, she felt less guilty and ashamed to be asking this question.
With her head bowed, she asked him, "Why did my father not love me?" Jeren looked up into Elrond's eyes as soon as the question was out. "He said that he did on his deathbed, but I am sure there are things said on deathbeds that are not necessarily true, but are only what one expects to say, as well as what others might expect to hear. His actions constantly belied his last words."
Elrond smiled a sad smile, and his face took on a faraway look. "Your father was ever a mystery and a puzzle to me, when it came to you. You might not know this but he felt much the same way about his father as you do about him. They were very alike—he and his sire—stubborn and headfast—and unable to say what was in their hearts. They knocked heads so many times, 'tis a wonder neither broke his neck." Elrond looked at her then and smiled again. "Anardil loved you, Jeren; never doubt that. And I do not tell you this because it may be something you might expect me to say at a time like this. He truly did love you."
"He was angry with me the last time I saw him—I mean not in the healing halls, but after—," Jeren stopped, not wanting to get into an explanation of the battle and how she'd gone to rescue Elrohir alone. She did not think that Elrond would be particularly impressed with her daring. More likely, he'd be angry with her, too. "But then," she said to steer away from the subject she did not want to discuss, "he was more often angry than happy with me. I've frequently wondered just what I could have done to make him love me better—besides having been born a son instead of a daughter."
She bit into an apple, chewed for a few moments, then swallowed.
"Only a day ago, he said some truly hateful things to me. It hurt my heart, and made me angry with him. I guess I still am, somewhere inside. But I'm also distraught at his loss. 'Tis a very confusing feeling."
"That is how feelings mostly are—a perplexing jumble to sort out. I am sure that with time you will sort yours out, and you will come to the realization that your father did the best he could, and that is really all one can expect of someone else, is it not? They might not live up to our hopes, but if they truly try, with what knowledge they have, how can we fault them?"
Jeren considered his words for a few moments. "But he was my father. I would think a father would know what his child might need. You have always known what I needed. Why did he not?"
"A child is not born to a parent, with that parent possessing foresight on the best way to raise him. And you were a motherless female child—already half grown—when you were thrust upon him." At Jeren's hurt expression, Elrond quickly added, "None of which was your fault. But neither was it his.
"After Jennah died, the wise thing for him to do would have been to turn you over to your aunt and uncle at the settlement. Your aunt is a wonderful woman, you would like her." He reached out and took her chin in his fingers, lifting her face so she'd look at him. "But he wanted you with him. I think you were a little bit of Jennah he had left, and he wanted not to part with you. Until he realized that being out on patrol was no place for a thirteen-year-old girl. But still his inflexible pride would not allow him to ask your kin for a place for you in their home.
"His answer to problems when it came to you was always the same: run. Run away as fast as he could and deny they existed. A case of 'what he did not know might not be so bad'. 'Tis how you came to be alone out at the cabin, to be attacked by Orcs. He never meant for anything bad to happen to you, he just denied to himself that it could. And when something did, he was devastated.
"He raised you as he'd been raised, and in your case, that was not always the right way. Although you've fought it for most of your life, you are female and all he knew were a man's ways. And the times have changed. The world is bleaker now than when he was a lad.
"Which brings me to what I wanted to speak to you about. 'Tis nothing pressing or of major import—at least it shouldn't be—as far as you are concerned. Yet knowing your pride—you are your father's daughter in many respects, dear one—I wanted to make sure that all was entirely clear." He gazed into her eyes, seeing there curiosity, but not worry. That was exactly as he wanted to approach this subject.
"Jeren," he began, "you are and have been of majority for a few years now, at least as far as Humans count things. Were you Elfkind, you'd still have a few decades before you would be pronounced adult. Yet I want you to know I respect the fact that you are not Elven; you are Human.
"I would never try to take Anardil's place, yet I will gladly guide you if you ask it of me. I hope you know that I consider you my daughter, regardless of our differences in race and lack of blood between us. I need for you to know that you have a room in my house forever—when you're seventy-and-three, if you so choose—but definitely for now, while to my eyes, you are still my young one."
Without speaking, Jeren rose and then settled right next to Elrond, in the crook of his arm, laying her head upon his shoulder. "I am humbled, my lord. And so very honored to be considered a part of your family. I know not exactly what I will do in the future, but for now, I would most love being here in Rivendell, in my room—at home. There's much to consider—and much to tell you about how things went at the stronghold. But for now, could we just sit here?"
He agreed that they could, and he stroked her hair as she silently wept.
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